Chapter Text
When she was a child, Kate would count the bathroom tiles when the house became too much. Too much sound, too many smells, too many visuals and too much air to touch (her skin, her face, her legs, the back of her neck).
The color is Foundry Blue. Porcelain. Father chose it. He likes blue. Noah does too.
She'd sit on the floor, lock the door and lean against it.
Six from the floor to the sink. Eight from the sink to the ceiling.
She'd hold her breath once or twice, to focus on the numbers instead of the rise and fall of her chest — the sound of the air down her throat clogging her ears.
Fifteen tiles from the corner of the wall to the laundry basket. Another fifteen to the tub, then fourteen up to the ceiling.
Forget the strong smell of vanilla, linen and plastic.
From the border of the tub to the corner of the wall, twelve tiles. Summing it up, a single wall should have a length of forty-two tiles and a height of fourteen. Each tile is a vertical rectangle. Blue rectangles. Foundry Blue. They are small, occupy less space. That's why there are fewer tiles up to the ceiling.
Childhood plastic, polybutylene terephthalate plastic, and the damn Air Wick her mother got on the local market.
If I distribute the values, these walls have 588 tiles. 1176 if the opposite sides are added together.
And once she had two of the walls covered, she'd turn in place — get the necessary distance to look at the tiles of the one she was leaning into. The door's wall.
This side has fewer tiles than the other. In length. It has only 31.
She'd screw her eyes shut for a second, isolate the sounds inside herself and whatever noise that came from outside the room she was in. Steps on the hardwood floor downstairs, cupboards being opened. The washing machine, and the neighbor's dog. Her brother's dog and the birds on the trees. Those loud cars that always drove down the street, and her father's lawnmower. And then her mother–
31 not counting those that would’ve been there if it hadn't been for the door.
Her mother knocking on the door. Asking her to come out. To stop being so difficult — to do it right now . To not make her break the lock.
The same fourteen tiles up to the ceiling. Fourteen times thirty-one. 434 if I do the distribution. 868 if I add the opposite wall.
Kate would use the bathroom tiles as a distraction, a way to filter her thoughts and worry about something more simple, easy to control.
2044 in total. 2044 tiles in the whole bathroom.
Sometimes it would work. Sometimes it got worse. Sometimes her mother would find a way to open the door and scream at her. Sometimes she'd be left alone — think about what you've done; you're no little kid anymore. But sometimes… sometimes there was Noah. (Sometimes he got to her first — gently knocking on the door, and waiting until she was ready to open the door and let him in. Sitting on the floor, beside her, and asking if he could count tiles too.)
“How do you know these numbers are right?” He asks, their shoulders touching and a smile starting to form on his face.
“Well, I count them now and then and the numbers never change. It's always 2044 tiles.” She replies, confidently, and for some reason it makes his smile grow.
Patient and understanding, he'd sit by herself whenever he could, whenever she allowed him to. They'd stay there for as long as necessary until Kate was able to answer silly questions about her favorite color and her favorite food. Smile back at him. Explain why she trusted her method — teach him how to do it like her. Tell him why she hated their mother's Air Wick. Laugh with him when he suggested stealing the batteries. Thank him for not just dragging her out of the corner — apologizing for making him sit with her on the cold concrete floor.
“I don't mind.” He'd say. “Counting tiles is kinda fun, don't you think?”
At law school, Kate would leave her dorm in the middle of the night and walk across campus to the small auditorium in the old north end building. The doors were ridiculously easy to open, the light box wasn't too far from the entrance, and the few guards who always saw her there never asked her to go back to wherever she came from — all they'd say was ‘be careful when you get back to your dorm’ and ‘leave everything the way you found, and I’ll forget I’ve seen you here.’
So, when the noise from the rooms adjacent to hers was too much — and she couldn't distinguish the feeling of the music coming from the halls, vibrating under her feet, to her own heartbeat — she would seek comfort in an abandoned place with poor lighting and lots of dust. She’d avoid getting too close from the stage, but would turn on the big lights behind the curtains. She’d choose the third seat on the second row (back to front) and, of course, she’d count .
Count the small holes disguising the thick soundproofing system inside the walls. Count them in rows and columns, then make estimates on quadrants. Count every little dot she could see that didn't run past the speaker, heading toward the ceiling.
First quadrant. The one closer to me.It looks like cantaloupe orange. Soft, not too warm, not excessively absent. It’s a great choice of color. I could live in a room like this.
If her classes that afternoon were too much, if all the lines on her textbooks tasted the same, if the chair by her desk didn't feel right. If she slept for 3 hours, and it was too much. If she slept all through the weekend, and it still wasn't enough.
First quadrant, alright. 84 holes on the last row. 57 on the last column. 4788 in total.
If the coffee shop she always went to before class was closed, or if her order tasted different. If her sweater wasn't as heavy as she expected it to be, and her hair tie couldn't disguise the fact she had too much hair. If something on her handwriting didn't feel like hers, or if she got lost in her notes because she couldn't stop thinking about how fascinating her mechanical pencil was on that particular day.
The blue bathroom tiles would fit approximately twice that number. And those walls would fit perfectly in a quadrant like that.
If she tried to call her father, and he didn't answer. If she woke up on the wrong side of the bed and realized Noah was never going to count the 2044 tiles at home with her again.
Through this column, I see 10 repetitions of the same quadrant. That's ten times the number in one quadrant. And ten times the number in a quadrant is 20 times the bathroom in that house.
If she now took a little longer to figure out if things were under control because the auditorium was empty, and she wasn't on the floor — perspective gets tricky from certain points of view, she’d say.
Exactly 47880 holes. That's plenty per column. (Did they think this through? Was this planned? It probably aids on the acoustics. They wouldn't have such a large number for no reason.)
Noah is not there. He wouldn't know a thing about the 47880 holes she counted in one column. He wouldn't ask about the other columns, or how she found this place — why this specific place; why so far away.
4788 holes by quadrant. A bit more than the bathroom tiles. Twice the bathroom tiles.
He wouldn't recognize the color of the walls, the amount of steps she took to get there, or the faces of the security guards who saw her along the way — why was she still thinking about him, promising to come back, and then him, coming back only as an honorable medal for a deserving hero.
And he wouldn't walk her back to her dorm. Assure her it would be fine , and that counting quadrants on an abandoned building was fun too. He wouldn't get to say something stupid like, ‘it’s fun because it's something I get to do with you ’ and manage to get a grin out of her.
He wouldn't — why she wanted to be mad at him because counting tiles only worked because he was there.
10 quadrants per column. 47880 holes. I think my numbers are right.
And as a consequence of that, she wouldn't know if she was right.
47880 holes. 2044 tiles.
47880 holes and 2044 tiles.
She’d take longer than she used to take, and she'd count it all over again if she looked above her shoulder, right before turning off the lights — if, in that split second, she saw the column and the number got lost between her throat and the tip of her tongue.
47880 holes.
2044 tiles.
As an adult, the emergency exits for overwhelming days are harder to figure out. Either because she's too tall to fit behind the bathroom door, or because she's too old to unlearn how difficult it is to grow such a sensible first skin. (Her old numbers. The foundry blue tiles. The quadrants on the cantaloupe wall. The insistent counting. How contained environments helped her remember that life was not only about survival.) Kate can't just walk out of her apartment in DC in the middle of the night and find an empty place to hide. Even when the assaulting noises coming from outside are entering her room without permission and dirtying her sheets.
Or when her teeth meet at the wrong angle, and she feels the friction irradiating through her skull and hammering on the nape of her neck. (When the fruity smell coming from the hallway is making her nauseous, and the blinding lights are kept on no matter what.) On the elevator, the main lobby, the street, her office, the cabs and even the market at the main avenue.
Kate can't find a quick way out of this.
(There are no sequences to search and no patterns in her sterile white walls to connect.
There are no rabbit holes to escape to.
There is no brother waiting by her bathroom door, or sitting on the cold floor with her. To count. To make it work. Make it better. Teach her how to put things in the right place and function.
Not to be sensible and ridiculous.
Not to throw tantrums at minimal inconveniences.
To not waste her free nights sitting on the living room’s hug, covering her ears. Trying to understand why people insisted on pressing their car's honk for too long just to prove a point. Why would they go on with that when it wouldn't reduce the traffic, make it go faster — why couldn't they just sit in the damn driver's seat and wait like everyone else.
Just wait like everyone else .)
Kate can't find an immediate way out of this.
But she can remind herself of the few things that are going to be hers, even if she feels her bones melting under her skin.
Like her ears, her teeth, her toes. Her 13th rib, the freckles on her neck, and the back of her knee. Her bellybutton, the curve of her clavicles, and the earrings she never takes off. Her watch with 43200 seconds, and the golden chain bracelet of 57 loops that never leaves her wrist.
43200. 57. 2044. 47880.
57 loops. 2044 tiles. 43200 seconds. 47880 holes.
The memory of Noah. The last time she went to their childhood house. The graduation ceremony and how she stood there on her own.
57 loops. 2044 tiles.
(How do you know those numbers are right, KitKat?
The numbers never change, Noah. I try them every once in a while. You're always there when I sum it up.
Am I?
Yes.
Does it work?)
43200 seconds. 47880 holes.
57. 2044. 43200. 47880. 57. 2044. 43200. 47880. 57. 2044. 43200. 47880. 57. 2044. 43200. 47880. 57. 2044. 43200. 47880. 57. 2044. 43200. 47880. 57. 2044. 43200. 47880.
I don’t know. You’re not here to check with me anymore.